


give me a harbour, what do you say

by Lyxxie



Series: beck and call [4]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Abuse, I made your character into way more of a dick than he probably is, Jarchie - Freeform, M/M, Sad, TW - panic attack, This is just sadness with a happy ending, and in this corner we see mother hen fred andrews, everyone's crying, i'm not crying you're crying, my apologies to skeet ulrich, there should always be more love for fred, this is so rude I am so sorry, tw - abuse, who should honestly just adopt everyone like foster's home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 21:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyxxie/pseuds/Lyxxie
Summary: Don’t think about it. Don’t remember this right now. Get up, open the door, leave. Get to the Andrews' get to the Andrews' get to Archie get out get out get outgetoutgetout.ORFP is not a good father. Jughead deserves better, deserves a family. The universe works at giving him one, but things have to be broken before they can be mended.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow ok I have to start with an apology. This is a feels fic of feels fics, a prime example of me being hellaciously rude. I had this idea that I had to write and it spiralled into a LONG journey and buckle up, folks. This is the last fic for now of just feels and no smut. The next part in this series will have some good times, promise. Thanks for sticking it out with me.
> 
> Next comes the dedication, where I gift this to my wonderful dear Varda because she likes feelings more than porn (the fuck, dude). You make me feel old af but I love you.
> 
> Lastly, blessings to usagi (angeburger) for all her beta work, cheerleading, general friend dudeness, and dubbing this the "sad boy fic" which is super fucking correct, good luck guys.
> 
> Let me know if I ruined your day. Bisoux.

Jughead's not sure how he makes it to the Andrews' front door.

The thought should trouble him, he knows, but his whole body's been numb for close to an hour now and he can’t seem to remember how to function like it’s not. He knows he left his house, knows he started walking, can picture the streets and the cars and the streetlights and the night sky above him, but there are gaps in his memory, sections missing like pages torn haphazardly out of a book. It jumps from one scene to another, and when he tries to link them all he sees is black. 

It should disturb him, concern him, he  _ knows _ , but not one part of him cares.

He stands in front of the door for a few moments (seconds? minutes? hours?) while his mind plays tricks on him. When he blinks, for a moment he swears it’s day time. The sun blinds his eyes from the corners, birds chirp nearby, cars drive by behind him. The memory feels so real, Jughead having visited the house countless times, and for a moment he can almost feel warmth on his skin. When he blinks again it’s gone, replaced by chilled air, dark shadows, cloistering silence.

Jughead eyes the frame, noticing with the faint echo of a slick tug in his stomach that his hand is on the wood, fist closed and resting against it. 

He has no idea if he's knocked.

He tries to cast the net back this time, tries to remember if he did, tries to remember  _ anything _ , but then his eyebrows are drawing together in effort and the muscles in his face are pulling to frown in concentration and there’s  _ pain _ , nothing but a screeching in his head like a train trying to stop at full speed and skidding off the tracks, like tires squealing before the car flips, the crash sounding too much like a fist hitting skin-

“Hey, J-“

His eyes focus on Fred Andrews standing in the door frame, silhouetted against the hall light, one hand still on the knob and the other at his side, limp. Jughead stares at him quietly and watches his eyes scan over his face, settle on his right cheek, flick away and back, away and back, finally matching his gaze. Fred's face is somehow drawn so tight and so loose, looking furious and sad and he  _ knows _ , Jughead knows he does, knows he must have figured it out, knows he probably guessed it immediately, but it all settles until he just looks _ heartbroken _ . Something in Jughead hurts, starts to  _ feel  _ again, doesn't want Fred to look like that, but then Fred opens his mouth and Jughead can hear the tremor in his words before he says them, decides to beat him to speaking to save him the trouble.

“Hello Mr. Andrews,” Jughead doesn't recognize his own voice, hollow, monotonous, but can’t find the drive to fix it. “Is Archie home?” 

Fred closes his eyes, muscle in his cheek twitching, and takes a breath that Jughead can hear shaking in his chest. He steps out of the way to let Jughead into the house, and Jughead imagines he can see thousands of words on Fred's face, wonders which ones he'll pick to start. 

“Jughead-“

“Hey, Dad, is that Jug at the door?” Archie's voice travels from the second floor as he rounds the corner to step on the stairs. Jughead slides eyes over to watch his descent. “He said he’d come by after he spoke to his dad about some-“ And Jughead sees the moment Archie catches sight of him, foot thumping on the stair four from the bottom, mouth slack for a beat, before he all but jumps the last few and comes to stand before him in the doorway. His face is paling, paling, freckles turning stark against his skin, and Jughead counts them for something to do as he waits for Archie to take stock of him. Knows he'll come to the same correct conclusion as his dad-

The screeching is starting again in his head and this time Jughead’s lungs are tight, he can’t breathe, there’s too much noise, he has to run-

_ Don’t think about it. Don’t remember this right now. Get up, open the door, leave. Get to the Andrews' get to the Andrews' get to Archie get out get out get outgetoutgetout. _

He snaps back into reality like the sound on the tv clicking on, sees Archie's hands shake, rise, start to reach for him, stop. Jughead's not sure he wants to be touched right now anyway, not sure what he really wants. Knows that Archie knows that, too. 

He thinks maybe he’s supposed to say something, but all his words are gone and replaced with dust and snow and made-up novocaine. And besides, he doesn’t know if he even _can_ say something when Archie's looking at him like that, like his heart is breaking too, like he’s _sorry_ , he’s _so_ _sorry_ , he wishes he could make any of it better. Jughead's mouth is open before he can stop it, gaze focused somewhere above Archie's shoulder, but he doesn’t get to try and unclog the apology that’s lodged in his throat.

“You have  _ nothing  _ to be sorry for.” Fred starts, and his voice is low and shaking with rage or sorrow or both, Jughead can’t tell. “ _ Nothing _ .” Something in his face must have given him away, Jughead thinks, and he lowers his eyes to the floor, watches Vegas pad into view from the entrance to the living room. Fred takes another shuttered breath, Archie does the same, and when Fred lets his out Jughead thinks he might have cursed, he thinks Archie might have said his name. “Come inside, Jughead,  _ please _ -“ Fred says, and Jughead takes a step, two. Stands just inside the door, Archie closer now, grief on his face easier to see, harder to watch.

“You two go – go upstairs, I’ll…be there in a minute. Jughead, I’m-“ Fred swallows, Jughead sees his hand come up to run through his hair, a family tic. The thought starts another roll through his system, distant thunder across the plains picking up speed, but there’s a touch, so light he almost doesn’t feel it against his nerveless fingers, and he twitches them back once to bump against Archie's. “I’m going to get…something for you to put on that.” Fred's hand pulls off from his head and gestures once at Jughead's face before falling back to his side. “Is that ok?” Jughead nods, a shallow jerk of his head. 

“Is there…is there anywhere else?” Archie asks, so quietly, and Jughead thinks that something in his eyes might be dead or dying as Archie takes a breath when he looks at him.

“Ribs.” Now he definitely hears Fred curse, feels Archie's fingers a hair's breadth from his as the redhead’s hand shakes.

“ _ Jesus _ -“ Archie's voice is hoarse, and Jughead imagines he can see bile rising up his throat, imagines he can hear the words no one is saying. ‘He's his  _ father _ -‘

He moves his eyes to the stairs and Archie takes the cue, walking up ahead of Jughead with one last brush against his knuckles. Jughead hears the door shut behind him as he climbs and looks back to see Fred, palm flat against the wood and forehead lowering slowly to do the same. He blinks, finds himself in Archie's room. Blinks again, and he’s sitting on the bed. He’s getting used to the fact that he can't remember the action. His brain seems to be operating like a skip code, recording for 20 seconds and skipping the next 5. 

“Jug,” Archie starts, and Jughead looks up to see how hard his teeth are clenched, watches him swallow his tongue as he tries to find some way to tell him that it'll all be ok. It won’t be, so Archie stays quiet, jaw firm and body quaking. Jughead gazes about the room instead, eyes falling on pictures and memories to keep his brain occupied, keep it distracted from going back, keep the crash in midair, in suspension, keep him from hitting the ground, his face, the wall-

There’s the poster from that terrible action movie they saw at the beginning of the summer. Jughead hated the predictability but Archie loved the action, so of course they went to see it. Archie threw popcorn at him when he made snoring noises through the protagonist’s big speech.

On his desk, the picture of Archie and his mom. Archie's 11, Jughead thinks, wearing his little league softball uniform and holding Mary's hand. Archie's grinning in that way only kids can do, like they've seen the whole universe already and they love every second of it, and Mary's face is caught at the beginning of a laugh.

The bed dips as Archie sits beside him, keeping an inch of distance between them and waiting. He’ll wait forever if Jughead stays quiet, he knows. He knows he won’t reach out to try and touch him, hold him, unless Jughead moves first. Archie will wait until he's ready,  _ he knows _ , and if he’s never ready then Archie will run with him. Jughead's been like this before, silent, unresponsive, in shambles, and though it’s never been like  _ this,  _ Archie knows the pattern. A faint tremor runs through his pinky as he continues to lose himself in memories, safe havens, past ignorance.

A photo of Vegas as a puppy is pinned to the corkboard above Archie's dresser, back when he was all fluff and tail. Jughead remembers sleepovers in the Andrews' living room during that first summer with their new dog, unfolding a sleeping bag on the floor in front of the tv and falling asleep watching movies with the volume so low, careful not to wake Archie's parents. Jughead and Archie separated only by Vegas squeezing between them. He'd often wake up boiling, Archie sprawled out and Vegas in an eerily similar position, both having somehow thrown a limb or two over Jughead's sleeping form. He never really minded.

Scattered around the room are recent pictures of him and Jughead, and some are just of Jughead, quick little candid shots where Archie always looks sunny and Jughead looks vaguely annoyed. In each one, though, Jughead can still see the upturned edges of his lips as he humours his best friend and boyfriend, unable to look fully unhappy when Archie smiles. On his bedside table, tucked in a frame, is a photo of Jughead and Archie at 6 years old. They're both holding up turtles and grinning like lunatics, having found them along the edge of the river during a joint family picnic. They'd put them back almost immediately after the photo, Fred explaining that they couldn’t take them away from their home. Jughead's beanie is crooked in the picture and he can almost see his mom’s hand just out of frame, reaching to straighten it with a laugh.

The photo pulls at a memory, wakes up some part of Jughead that didn’t suffocate when he poured steel into his bones, didn’t freeze when he covered his nerve endings in ice and left his house, and it clings to the memory with clawed fingers, throws it past his lips and makes him speak about something,  _ anything _ , just to get him talking.

“Mom bought me this hat when I was 6, do you remember?” Jughead's voice sounds like wet sand, thick and gritty with disuse, and the suddenness of it pulls a breath into Archie's lungs, loud enough to fill the quiet as Jughead licks once at his dry lips. “I wore it the whole summer and she bought 5 more so I could always have one when I inevitably wrecked them growing up. I've worn it _every_ _goddamned day_ since then, and Dad asked me tonight why I'm 'still wearing that ridiculous crown hat', and told me I'm 'not the fucking king of anything'. He said 'Jones' don't rule shit, boy, get used to the dump. Get used to everyone leaving you.'” 

There’s another few moments of silence, Archie's hands shaking faintly where they rest on his knees. Jughead tries to take a deeper breath, all his words have winded him, but the action  _ pulls _ at his ribs and lights fires in every centre of his brain. He tries not to make a sound,  _ tries _ , but fails when a bubbled gasp of pain slips free. He hears something small and looks over to find Archie's hands in fists on his thighs. Jughead keeps his eyes on the other boy this time, watches him stare furiously at the wall and swallow everything he wants to say, to ask, to yell. Jughead’s shoulders slump down slowly; his body's starting to be too tired to keep everything at bay.

“Ask me.” He tells Archie, voice almost a whisper. Archie looks back over at him, and Jughead imagines he can hear all the questions he's sorting through, picking something that Jughead will respond to.

“Is…is this the first time he's hit you?” Archie's voice sounds like he's holding the button down on a grenade he's already pulled the pin out of. Something in Jughead’s stomach turns over at the question, threatens to spill, but whatever part of him that's still alive is fighting, opening his mouth and pouring words out.

“First time he's succeeded. Not the first time he's tried.” Archie waits, body coiled tight like a spring, eyes lost, for Jughead to decide if he wants to continue. “When Mom left. I told you about it. Spared a few details, though.” Jughead’s slides his eyes over to the window, doesn’t want to watch Archie look so sad anymore. “They were having another argument about Dad's drinking. He missed part of one of Jellybean's playoff softball games, shows up halfway through and smells like a brewery. He asked Mom what number Jellybean was. She picks 7  _ every year _ , Arch.”

“I remember.” Archie says, voice quiet. Jughead knows he’s still watching him, eyes tracing the shape of the bruise on his face, the skin puffy and red under his eye. The words are spilling out easily now, faucet on, sink overflowing. 

“So they fought when we got home from the game. They go into the bedroom, I get Jellybean a popsicle and turn on the tv cause she doesn’t need to hear that. At first they're hushed, right, trying not to let us hear them, but I know Mom's so tired of having this discussion with him. ‘You’re missing out on the lives of your children.’ She goes, on cue, and Dad starts to yell about some bullshit reasoning or whatever shit he can think will explain away absentee-ism. But then their bedroom door opens and Dad comes stumbling out, still yelling, trying to get to Jellybean, trying to ask her if she  _ hates him _ , because he says Mom's making it seem like his own kids hate him. I pull Jellybean behind me, she looks terrified, like she’s about to cry, and tell him he can’t ask her shit like that. It's not fair to pull a 9 year old into an argument she shouldn’t understand at her age when he's still plastered. Mom goes over to console her, Dad wheels on me and starts  _ screaming _ that I don’t have the right to talk to him like that, that I owe him some respect, that I'm just some smartass punk kid, and fuck me for thinking I'm better than him.”

Jughead swallows, throat tight, and realizes that he can’t stop speaking. Something got rewired in his brain and now there’s an avalanche, an oil spill, a forest fire. Everything he'd built and put up since he left his house is falling, dying, burning, and he wants to run-

“Mom tells him to stop, what is he _doing_ , ‘why are you saying these things’. Dad takes a step to her and I go to stand in front. He takes a swing. I dodged it only because he was drunk, Archie. He would have hit me otherwise. He might have _hit_ _Mom_. There’s this weird pause, you know, everything gets so quiet and we’re all trying to digest the fact that Dad almost hit me on purpose. He pulls his fist out of the drywall and just goes to the floor, immediately trying to tell us it’s the booze, he’s so sorry, he didn’t mean it. And Mom…you could _see_ , see the moment she understood her family was torn, there's a crack down the middle and it's not a clean break. Her husband's on the floor crying, there's a hole in her wall and she can't be sure no one's drowned already.”

Dimly, Jughead’s a little shocked to find his hands around his middle, like he’s trying to hold parts of himself together. And he's failing, he knows he is, because it feels a bit like a localized earthquake, like sailing into a perfect storm, like he's giving up. Archie's fingers are clenching the sheets close to his leg, wanting to touch him so bad Jughead imagines he can feel it. He almost lets him, comes so close, but he knows the second Archie touches him he'll be done, dead in the water, and he's not finished talking.

“She told me the next night she was going, wanted to take Jellybean and I away from him because she could finally see that we might all be in danger. I told her to go. I told her to take Jellybean and go, Arch. I told her she had to save herself, save her daughter, but I couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to uproot my life. I'm almost done school, I didn’t want to leave this town, this place, you.” His voice starts to crack, floes forming around him faster than he can keep track of. “Maybe it was selfish, maybe I still wanted to believe he'd get sober, be better, be a  _ father _ . And if he did, I could call them back and she'd trust me to be right. I wanted to believe they'd come back home. But she left, they left, and I can’t blame her, I  _ told _ her to go, that I’d be fine. I still don’t know how she let me stay, maybe she believed him a little, too. I could never hold it against her, I  _ wouldn’t _ , because if he continued down that path then it's better if I’m the only target.” He can hear Archie begin to protest and clenches his fists tight just under his ribs, just under the damage. “ _ It’s better if I’m the only target. _ They don’t deserve that.”

“ _ You  _ don’t-“

"He hit me tonight for  _ nothing _ . He was  _ sober _ . Hungover, but sober. I told him I spoke to mom and she asked about some document she needed in their dresser. He asked why she didn't talk to him directly. I told him she probably tried and he didn't check his phone. That was it. He asked me to repeat myself and then he swung. Out of nowhere, like it was nothing. Like it's  _ nothing _ to punch your  _ son _ in the face, to hit him as he goes down, put your boot into his ribs when he's on the floor, it's  _ nothing _ , I’m  _ nothing _ -"

It’s starting now, he can feel it. The world's tilted under him, hurled him into the churning waters below. His whole body's shaking so hard that his teeth hurt, his ribs hurt, everything hurts and he just wants it to _stop_ , he wants it all to _just_ _stop_. In a second, Archie's sliding off the bed and kneeling in front of him, face devastated where it swims in Jughead’s vision. He can't hear anything, cotton in his ears dulling any noise to an unintelligible murmur, like a party 4 doors down. And he can barely see, something encroaching on the edges of his vision, black like the sea at night. From outside himself he can recognize the signs of his anxiety attacks, see all the flags, but inside himself the waves are pulling him under, choking up his lungs and throwing him about. His thoughts are too quick, he can't latch on to anything for long, but the sound of his dad's fist hitting his face replays itself in his head like a warped record, sometimes at half speed and sometimes at double, joined only by the sound of the boot connecting with his chest to form some sort of horrid cacophony.

His breathing is too quick. Everything's too quick. He sees Archie's hands rise in front of them both, sees the question in his eyes, and tries to nod through the sensation of drowning. Archie settles his hands on the sides of his neck, he feels for a moment, thumbs resting beside his ears. His hearing comes back slowly, with a whine that Jughead isn’t sure is just in his head.

“Juggie. Hey. Look at me.” His brain throws the memories of every other time Archie's helped him through an attack at him until it all blends into one.  _ Lookatmelookatmelookatmelook- _ “Can you hear me?”  _ Canyouhearmecanyou _ -

“Y-y-“

“Ok, it’s ok. You don’t have to speak. Just focus on me, ok? I'm right here, you’re right here. You’re safe, everyone is safe. I need you to try and breathe with me, ok? We’re just going to breathe through this.” Jughead remembers breathing, sees the memories still, and tries to match his inhale with the Archie in front of him. It’s hard through all the shaking, his muscles feel like they’re trying to escape, but they breathe. They breathe, and Jughead keeps his eyes open, focused on Archie, focused on the eye of the storm. It takes a few moments to be marginally better, at least now he’s pulling actual air into his lungs with regularity, and Jughead speaks before he knows his brain is making him.

“I…I want…I-“ He stops, eyes bouncing around the room as another wave hits. 

“It’s ok. Keep breathing, Jug. Tell me what you want, let me help.” Jughead screws his eyes shut tight and starts to fold in on himself, ignoring the screaming burn in his side, his face, his body.

"I want to start a fire, I want to fight a war, I want to hit him, I want to be screaming, _why_ _the_ _fuck_ _am_ _I_ _not_ _screaming_ , I want my mom, I want my sister, I don't want to be me, I don't, I can't, I want you, you you you you you-“ His hands pull away from his midsection and move towards Archie for a beat, barely a second, before Archie’s leaning up on his knees and wrapping arms around Jughead's shoulders, tucking him into himself and holding as tight as he dares without causing pain. Jughead holds him tighter, no restrictions, and buries as much of the good side of his face as he can into the crook of Archie’s neck. He's crying now, he’s sure of it, everything inside him broken and twisted and ripped, and thinks he can feel Archie crying too, water on the skin of his shoulder that’s been exposed as Archie clenches fingers in his shirt.

“I'm  _ sorry _ , Jug, I’m so sorry.” Archie's voice is thick, shaking, and he repeats the words like a mantra as Jughead squeezes his knees against Archie's body.

"Don't leave me,  _ please _ -” His voice breaks and Archie moves himself impossibly closer. Jughead thinks maybe Archie can see it now, maybe he always could, that spot inside him that'd been sewn together. Hiding something off, wrong, and the messily stitched covering is coming loose. But Archie murmurs promises against his skin, promises that Jughead knows he shouldn’t make, that maybe one day he can’t keep. And Jughead believes him anyway, believes they'll both fight for as long as they draw breath. He listens to Archie tell him how it’s impossible for them to live without each other, how they’re going to grow old together, how Jughead’s hair colour will match his hat, how Archie's going to buy box dye and be a redhead well into his 80s. He doesn't laugh, but he thinks he feels his lips turn up at the corners just a little, and his heart begins to slow into the gentle rocking of a ship, no longer a hurricane.

Jughead has no idea how long it takes for him not to feel so lost, for him to just be tired, but it’s as they’re still holding on to each other like lifeboats that Archie pulls back just enough to put their foreheads together. “You are not  _ nothing _ , Jughead. You will never be nothing. You are  _ something _ , and sometimes you are  _ everything _ .” Jughead feels the next breath pull at his lungs in a different way, tight with something other than pain, and opens his eyes to see Archie watching him. They spend a few more moments like that before Jughead relaxes the grip in his fingers, numb now, and stops pressing into Archie's skin so hard. Archie runs his gaze over his face, and dislodges himself a little more. “We should get you something for the swelling. I’m going to go get my dad, ok?” He asks, voice soft and gentle, but the word doesn't burn through Jughead anymore and he gives a slight nod. 

“Yeah.” He says, mainly to hear his voice again, hear if there's a change, but it’s heavy and tired and still his. Archie pulls away slowly, fingers lingering on his shoulders as he gets up and moves to the door. Jughead raises a hand to wipe at his eyes, catching stray tears along the tips of his still-shaking fingers. Archie pauses in the doorway, and Jughead turns to see Fred standing in the arch, bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel in his hands. There’s a spot on the carpet where the condensation has been falling for several minutes, Jughead guesses, and he looks up to see Fred wipe tear tracks off his cheeks. 

“Sorry, I…” Fred starts, moving into the room to stand closer to the bed, closer to his son, closer to his boys. “I didn’t want to interrupt. We don’t have any steaks, but this should help some.” He makes to step closer to Jughead, who rises to meet him, bones creaking and body complaining.

“Thank you.” Jughead murmurs, voice quiet, hand out for the bag, and meets Fred's eyes. “You heard me, then?”

“Yeah.” There’s a few beats of silence where Fred takes careful stock of Jughead, eyes mournful and face harrowed. Jughead finds he can’t look away, can’t raise the cold bag to his face, can only stand and wait for Fred to figure out what to say. “Archie's right. You're not nothing.” He says finally, and Jughead only gets the chance to swallow before Fred steps closer, pulls him into a hug. It’s so different than Archie's and yet so similar, and Jughead wonders if it's a gene that makes the Andrews men hug like this, like if they hold you hard enough they can take some of your burden, like they can loan you their light by pressing their heart to yours. 

Jughead raises slow arms to return the action, peas held out to not touch Fred, and feels a bit like he's trying to play Jenga, picking actions and words that won’t make the stack fall again. He does fine until Fred speaks. “It’s not fair. None of it is  _ fair _ , Jughead, and I’m sorry.” Jughead imagines he can hear the small wooden pieces hit the floor as he holds onto the man in front of him, the father he didn’t get, the one who got him anyway, chose him despite everything through kindness.

Fred pulls away after a few moments, one hand still on Jughead’s shoulder in a move so familiar that Jughead’s heart  _ aches _ . "Did-" Fred starts, voice gravelly, and clears his throat of the ash, the smoke, the fury and sadness that still sits on his face, too open like his son's. "Did we ever tell you two about when we first introduced you to each other?" Jughead shakes his head, a small movement. “Your folks brought you over a few days after you were born, Jughead, so we could all meet the new faces. You were so quiet, such a calm baby. Your mom was holding you, Mary was holding Archie, and we brought you two a little close to see each other. You both just stared at each other, big eyes, but when Mary pulled away Archie started  _ wailing _ . I’m not kidding, it was a racket.” Fred laughs, just once, rubbing a hand over his chin and turning to look back at Archie. Archie smiles, a fleeting thing, but Jughead takes a moment to bask in the small light it lets in. “We’d had you three months at that point and you'd never made that noise, Archie. We had to put you two down for a nap side by side and sneak you out while you slept.”

Jughead can feel his mouth quirk up just a bit, just an inch, a reflex as his heart beats a little off-rhythm for a moment. The room returns to its natural state again, quiet creeping in from the corners like slanted light, and Jughead looks down at the cold-wet bag of peas still in his hand. The act of raising it to his face seems insurmountable, impossible, and his body keeps shutting off pain receptors anyway to reserve energy he doesn’t have. He opens his mouth to try to explain, trudging through possible words like molasses, when Archie takes the bag from his hands. He looks up to see him, see the quiet calm radiating through his eyes, a façade to hide the chained fury he can glimpse in the background behind his corneas, slinking behind bars like a snarling tiger. 

“You just want to go to sleep.” Archie guesses, and Jughead pulls back from sticking fingers through the cage to reply.

“Yes. Is that-“

“Of course, Jug.” 

Fred takes the cloth covered object from Archie and smiles faintly, breath escaping in a sigh. Jughead wonders, briefly, what time it is, and imagines alternate universes spiralling out of his nerve endings, curling off into realities where none of this happened, maybe he and Archie are doing homework. Maybe his family is loving. Maybe he doesn’t feel like a burden, a dark star in the galaxy of the Andrews' life. He blinks, sweeps the self-destructive thoughts under the rug. Looks up at Archie and lights the rug on fire, seeing full worlds of love in the red skin around his eyes, oceans of potential time together etched out in the line of his jaw. Jughead wonders, for the first time in a long while, if he doesn’t have to keep imagining self-destructing. Archie smiles, real and whole, small but existing, and Jughead feels lighter, softer, less rough edges.

“I'll leave you both to it, then.” Fred murmurs, and turns back to the door. “Goodnight, boys.”

“’Night, Dad.”

“Thank you, Mr. Andrews.” Jughead replies, trying to put as much into the words as he feels, lifted up by this home, this family, this life with them.

Fred looks back at him from the hall, hand on Archie's door to close it behind him. He shakes his head a little, dismissing Jughead’s thanks, and seems to mull over his words for a moment.

“You’re family, Jughead.” He says as the door closes, the click resounding in Jughead’s bones like the closing of a book. He keeps eyes on the door, settling in his body again, before Archie shifts towards his line of vision.

“Bed?” Archie's voice is soft, like the whispers from their sleepovers, smoothing over Jughead's skin like a well-worn blanket. He turns eyes to the other boy and ignores the flashing red light in the corner of his brain, the alarm going off that's warning him that this is not over. Tonight was about getting him out, getting him safe, he knows, and tomorrow will be the reality of a life changed. Fred will ask if he wants to go to the police, Archie will sit near him and hold his hand while Jughead calls his mom. The thought of dealing with those scenarios makes him  _ weary _ , bone-achingly tired in a way he's never experienced before, so he tucks the knowledge away and nods. Archie turns off the light, setting the room in shafts of moonlight, torn through only by shadows and the glow of the streetlights. When Jughead looks back at him, torn away from the street below, Archie is sliding under the covers in his boxers, clothes in a haphazard pile on the floor. 

He can’t see Archie's eyes but knows he's watching, hears the flip of the sheets as Archie pulls them back on Jughead’s side and waits. Jughead's shoes come off first, toes thumbing into his socks next, and he raises a hand to his head and pauses, fingers touching the fabric of his beanie. It feels oddly monumental, this simple act on this night in this house, and he waits to see if the feeling will overthrow him, defenses down and mind hesitant. There’s nothing but the wind against the windows and the soft breathing of the boy in the bed, and Jughead pulls the hat off his head without fanfare. He holds it between his fingers for a moment, the span of 12 years beating in his chest, and glances up at the sound of Archie reaching across the bed to clear room on his night stand. Jughead places the beanie on the offered space, Archie responding to his murmured thanks with a fleeting touch along his wrist. His flannel comes next, dropped to the floor along with his jeans before he stops again, fingers along the edge of his tee. He can feel the heat along his ribs from the pain, the healing, the hurt and discomfort and definite bruising and he knows, he  _ knows _ there's already a mark and he  _ knows _ Archie will look for it in the dark and he doesn't want that to be the last image burned across his eyelids before he sleeps. His face is enough, the reckoning on the skin below his heart can wait until morning.

“It’s ok, Jug.” Archie's voice is still whisper soft, slid out on the tail end of a breath and Jughead looks over to him, eyes adjusted to the low light. He can see eyes in the darkness, soft like gentle luminescence, and climbs into bed beside the glow. Archie tucks the sheets around him and leans back, letting Jughead settle his weight slowly onto the damaged area, marred side of his face to the ceiling. He relaxes just as slow, unable to fully drain the remaining tension in his muscles, and finally watches Archie from along their pillows. 

A silence settles over the room that doesn’t smother, and Jughead slides his hand on the sheet between their bodies after several moments. Archie takes the offering immediately, hand coming up to tuck fingers between his own and hold. Jughead can feel a thumb running over the ridges and grooves in his knuckles and lets his breath out on a deep sigh. He imagines he can see all the dust dispelled from his lungs in the simple action, imagines that poison is expelled with it. 

“I love you.” Archie murmurs, the sound blending into the silence like it was born this way, and Jughead tilts his head forward until their foreheads are touching, feels the heat radiating off the other and sliding into his bones. Archie's hand grips his a little tighter, and Jughead remembers times spent curled into each other’s space like this before, when they were children. The roles were reversed then, Archie shaking with barely controlled fear as thunder boomed beyond the window panes, but their hands were clenched between them, foreheads bent together reverently, and Jughead would tell Archie distracting stories. He'd talk about comics, cartoons, books, or make things up when he ran out, words spilling out into the night to cover the bright jolts of light. There’s no thunder now but the storm exists in Jughead's mind, and he imagines a lightning strike that briefly illuminates them both.

“I know.” He whispers, eyes slipping shut. “I love you, too.”

Sleep comes easier than he thought it would, gripping him with calloused fingers and holding him captive and dreamless for hours. He wakes slowly, headache blooming behind his right eye and blinks his eyes open to see Archie, clothed and sitting against the headboard, notebook in his lap. Archie looks over at the noise of Jughead stretching out his legs and smiles, reaching out a hand to smooth the crease that’s formed between Jughead's eyebrows.

“Hey,” Archie says softly, and Jughead closes his eyes again, the world too bathed in soft light for him.

“Time is it?” he mutters. He hears shuffling, imagines Archie pulling out his phone. 

“About 11. You were out for a long while.” Jughead gives a huff as a reply and sinks deeper into the pillow. Archie's hand is in his hair now, smoothing it off his face with gentle fingers and sliding through the strands rhythmically. It’s almost enough to keep the centres in Jughead's brain from starting back up again, the damage reports telling him that everything still hurts, that reality hasn’t shifted. The car crash still smoulders in the background, just on the side of the road, and Jughead opens his eyes reluctantly to clear the embers from his vision. “Dad said to let him know when you woke up and he'd put on more coffee.” Jughead can hear the easy temptation in the words, the siren call of black coffee beckoning him out of bed, but he stubbornly stays put for another minute. He finally slides out of bed delicately, stands beside it to look at Archie, the droplets in his hair telling him that he slept through the sound of his shower. 

“Can you ask him to put it on now? I’m going to shower.” Archie nods and Jughead pads from the room, grabbing his reserved towel from the linen closet and closing the door behind him in the bathroom. He turns the taps on with practiced ease, pulling the latch to flip on the shower head and stripping in seconds, wincing as his arms lift over his head. He waits outside the tub for the water to warm up, back to the mirror, desperately trying to ignore the instincts in his head that tell him to turn around, assess the damage, see the end result. He counts to ten, empties his mind. Swears into the empty room, turns around.

There’s no burst blood vessels in his eye, which he feels oddly thankful for, but the discolouration is immediately evident, blotches of red and a dark, dark purple seeping over his cheek like ink. He prods once at his cheekbone, a mistake, and feels like someone's pressed an iron to his skin. He turns his head slightly to see the colour's bled up the side of his eye and the area underneath, a smudge across a printed page, a birthmark. The latter seems oddly fitting and he presses the bone again, pain lancing out to pound through his headache and bubble out his vision. When it clears he opens the medicine cabinet and takes two acetaminophen, swallowing with water from the sink before tilting his head down to inspect his ribs. 

No split skin, only a line of abrasion on the skin between two rib bones, a smattering of red dots across the angry, bruised skin. The colour is more purple than red, localized to a crescent area, about the shape of the toe of a boot, bleeding out to red at the edges, a horror show ombre. It looks to him like decay, or something under his skin trying to press out. Jughead slides light fingertips over the outline, feels small zips of current shoot into his brain from the oversensitive nerves. He stretches up his arm slowly, leaning away from the area to tighten the skin and feels it pull, the muscles protesting with twitches and sharp, hot pain. Jughead lowers his arm and steps into the shower, hands unsteady as he grabs the shampoo, showering on autopilot.

He exits the tub when the heat leaves, unsure of how long it’s been, and smells coffee wafting up from below when he opens the door, towel around his waist. The walk to Archie's room is quick, too quick to think about the immediate future, too quick to reconsider. Jughead enters the room and stands, watching Archie's eyes flit from his face to his chest. The emotions are immediate: jaw tense, pen stilling, eyes furious and sad and tumultuous and mournful and-

“Can I borrow a shirt?” Jughead asks quietly, mainly so that Archie can hear his voice, hear how he's still alive.

“Yeah.” The word sounds like it’s forced out of empty lungs, tossed off a cliff with shaking hands. “Of course.” It sounds like hot desert air, the absence of life, dark space. Jughead grabs a shirt from the dresser and throws it on quickly, too intent on hiding the marks to worry about being careful. When he turns, Archie is standing by the door, one hand up in his hair. He drags it over his face and Jughead puts on the rest of his clothes, tousling his hair with the towel before sliding his beanie on. Archie’s watching him, hand on the back of his neck to press fingers into his own skin, holding himself back. Jughead steps forward on an impulse, bringing a hand up to lightly touch his arm, and presses lips to his. The kiss is small, quick, a reminder of the part of Jughead that he gave to Archie, that he’s thankful he's looking after, and when he pulls away Archie is touching lips to his forehead, giving a part of himself in return. There’s a twitch in the corner of Jughead's lip, another impulse, and he shows the beginnings of his smile to the other boy as they leave the room to head to the kitchen.

Jughead grabs coffee from the pot, murmurs his greeting to Fred, takes his spot in the corner with his back to the counter, facing the kitchen island. It feels so familiar that he tries to get lost in it, imagines it’s any other morning for a brief second before Archie drops a bowl of cereal in front of him.

“I'm not-“

“Eat.” Fred's voice is calmly authoritative. Jughead's face turns into the beginnings of a frown and he picks up the spoon, stirring at the bowl lamely. 

“It’s going to get soggy and you’re going to hate it.” Archie’s voice is lightly teasing from behind his glass of orange juice, and Jughead shoots him a look. He gets through two bites and half his coffee when Fred puts his palms face up on the island, face carefully neutral. Jughead recognizes the peace offering, lowers his spoon into his bowl, meets Fred's eyes.

“You’re not going to like this question, Jug, but I have to ask it anyway. Please just let me.” Jughead's heart kicks out a quick, stuttering beat, shooting winter air into his veins. At his nod, Fred continues. “Do you want to go talk to Sheriff Keller? We'll go with you, or not, if you prefer.”

“No.” Jughead's voice seems off, low, and he clears his throat. “No, I don’t want to go to the Sheriff. This is done.” Fred takes a careful, deep breath, lets it out slow. Jughead glances over to see the firm set of Archie's jaw. It’s a few more seconds before Fred nods, slowly, and Jughead imagines he can hear the conversation Fred’s had with himself about this. 

“Ok. But this isn’t done if you go back, Jughead. You know that.” There’s something so soothing in Fred's tone; Jughead is reminded of people speaking to spooked animals.

It's not an incorrect comparison, at this point.

“I’m not going back. This is  _ done _ .” Jughead licks his lips, swallows 12 ounces of nervousness, tries to find his tongue. In every scenario he'd thought up about his next words, he always hated saying them. He hated asking, feeling so heavy, hated the way the words would sound, no matter how he reworked it. “Would it be possible…” he grits his teeth, forces his spine straight, slides his eyes to the bowl in front of him. “Can I…stay? I can find somewhere else soon, and I have some money-“

“I’m not taking your money, Jughead.” Fred cuts in, and Jughead blinks. When he opens his mouth to protest, Fred's shaking his head. “No. I already have enough guilt about this, I’m not letting you pay me. Let me give you a home.”

There’s a whole litany of things Jughead can say to that, words he feels rattle around in his mouth like marbles, but instead he just asks “Why?”

“I should have seen it. I've known FP for years, since we were young, I should've…I should've known. I could’ve said so many things about his drinking, I could’ve talked to him any number of times. When Gladys…she asked me to look after you. She asked me to make sure you'd be alright. She asked me to take care of her son if FP wasn’t better and I  _ didn’t _ . I failed her. I'll be damned if I can’t help now.” Fred looks up at him, eyes too piercing, and Jughead hears a hiss in his head like the air being let out of a balloon. “I'd like to think I'm a good adult in your life. I was supposed to protect you and I  _ failed. _ I’m never going to be able to apologize for it-“

“You shouldn’t have to. I would never blame you for this. Ever.” Jughead says, trying to get the words out right, trying to explain. None of this is how he imagined it would go and his words are tied up in knots under his tongue. Fred gives him a measured look and leans back, sliding his hands off the table.

“How about this, then. Make breakfast on Sunday mornings. Cook dinner once in a while, do the groceries when I give you money and a list. Throw a load of house laundry in with your stuff when it’s needed. Take Vegas for walks, make coffee if you get up first. That’s what I want you to do in return, Jughead. Live the life you were supposed to get.” Jughead turns his head, stares at a point on the fridge, tries to breathe through the ache in his chest that’s entirely new. Peripherally, he can see Fred extend a hand in his direction. “Deal?”

Jughead looks at the hand, hears the complete absence of thought in his mind. When he takes it, he can see his is shaking faintly, unsteady. “Deal.” His voice sounds small, and he briefly entertains the notion that he merely imagined his life thus far, and he's really just a 10 year old boy making a deal with the neighbours for how he's going to repay them for the window he accidentally hit a baseball through. When he looks over at Archie the vision is shattered, a smile so buoyant on the other boy's face that it takes over Jughead's brain.

“Great.” Fred claps his hands together and Jughead can’t help the smile that cracks the skin of his lips. “Later, we can-“ The knock at the door interrupts him, the off-beat staccato rhythm jarring through the kitchen like a curse. Jughead's not sure how they all know who it is, but he watches frostbite appear on Fred's cheeks, sees an icy wind blow through his eyes, sees storm clouds on the horizon of Archie's. Jughead feels a pull behind his bellybutton, a tilt in his world like vertigo. There's another knock like thunder, and Fred begins to walk to the door. “Stay here a moment, would you?” he says, voice too low, too calm to be true. Jughead gets up anyway, moves to the kitchen archway before he notices the décor change, waits. He can see Fred but not much through the front door as he opens it, and feels Archie stand beside him, feels the fury coming off him in waves, imagines the tiger snarling again behind bars.

“Fred,” FP's voice lurches through Jughead's system and he has to stop himself from physically jolting. He thinks he can hear a fuse being lit somewhere in his body, imagines his whole being searching frantically to put it out to no avail. Fred's face is stony, impassive, Jughead's vision narrowed to just him. “Fred, listen, have you seen Jughead?”

“I have.” Fred's tone matches his stance, and Jughead almost leaps out of skin when Archie's hand slides into his, fingers tucking in tight. His hand is shaking so bad that it bumps against their legs; Archie presses where they’re joined into the side of his thigh.

“Is he here? He's here, isn’t he? I need to talk to him, I made a mistake-“

“No.” Fred’s voice cuts him off, a sword through bone. “You didn’t ‘make a mistake’. You  _ assaulted _ your  _ son _ .” 

Fred's arm snaps out to hold the doorframe, barring FP's sudden attempt at pushing past him. “You have  _ no right _ -“ Jughead can hear the poison drip from FP's words, a snake rearing back to strike.

“See, actually I do.”

" _ Fuck _ you, Fred, keeping my own kid from me. This is low, even for you."

"He's not a fugitive, what is  _ wrong _ with you? He's a 16 year old kid that you made grow up too fast."

"He's  _ my _ son, not yours. Let me see my son-"

"You lost that privilege the minute you put your fist in his face." Fred shoves at him and Jughead can hear quick steps, FP stumbling back. Jughead's moving forward immediately, pushing Fred out of the way and taking his place as FP rolls his arm back. He freezes when he sees Jughead, eyes flicking to the bruise on his face and then away, unable to stand looking at it. 

“ _ Stop _ .” Jughead's not sure what’s speaking for him, tries to take stock of his body and recognizes fire in place of his blood. The genes he got from his dad are all flicked on, a sick rage pulsing through his fingertips to the tune of his overactive heart. “Enough.”

FP's face is blotchy, eyes bloodshot, and his body sags with the action of lowering his arm. “Jughead.” He rasps, and takes a rocky step forward. “Fred started-“

“What are you,  _ nine _ ? Grow the fuck up.” Jughead snaps. He watches FP's eyes dart over his shoulders, knows the Andrews men are standing behind him. He feels intermittently too tall and too short, like the anger is only enough to keep him going in bursts. If he stands still, he can almost feel wires connected from his shoulders to the ceiling, keeping him upright.

“Son,  _ please _ -“

“No. Go home, or wherever it is you go now. I'm going to the house later to get my things. Let me make this very clear: the way you came at Mr. Andrews just now, the way you came at  _ me _ ? If you do that again to me, or him, or Archie, Mom or Jellybean or any of my friends,  _ anyone _ , I’m going to the police. I’m not going now, and I don’t really know why. This is all you get. I am  _ done _ , Dad. This is  _ done _ .” He pauses for breath, feeling everything seep out the soles of his feet. He wonders idly if he’d see scorch marks on the carpet if he looked down. FP looks away, but not before Jughead catches the tail end of anger slide across his face. He feels another lump of coal fall into his stomach.

“I’m gone, Dad. Get off the porch.” He steps back and closes the door, hears it slam as though underwater. He thinks he might be hyperventilating, wonders if maybe he might just be not breathing at all instead. He can feel a hand on each of his shoulders, different but the same, and blinks when Archie pulls him into his chest, holding him up and taking the brunt of his weight. He forces out the rest of the fire, body shaking as Archie holds him tight. 

“You are good enough.” He hears Fred say, and thinks he may have missed him speaking, feels the words shut his eyes as he allows himself their comfort. 

He pulls back when his senses are all functioning again and his body stops crumbling to dust. Archie's eyes are sad, concerned, but Jughead can’t find a trace of the fury, imagines he bled it out of him as well. Fred looks much like his son, but there’s a rueful smile on his face.

Jughead tries to think of how to thank them in a way they'll let him say, something that will get across how he feels. He looks back to Archie and takes a deep breath, lungs clean. “Will you come with me to pick up my stuff?” he says instead, and wonders if all of his eloquence went up in smoke.

Archie smiles, and Jughead feels the stitching on his own heart. “Will you live with me?” he shoots back, and Jughead snorts, hears Fred laugh beside him. He marvels in the knowledge that the sun will rise even without him witnessing it.

“Deal.” 


End file.
